Close Encounters Of The Celsius Kind
by silverluna
Summary: Shawn persuades Juliet to go with him to British Columbia for a romantic getaway on Christmas. When Juliet is delayed, Shawn witnesses a crime. Will Shawn survive drastically low temperatures of the Celsius kind? Shules. For Psychfic Secret Santa.
1. Chapter 1: Far Away From Safe And Sound

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to: the song "She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain"; the movie _Killer Klowns From Outer Space_ or the _Ice Age_ movies; the band Relient K; Rick Astley; Rambo; BMX bikes; 7-11; I do not own the content (in italics and quotes) about Vancouver, which comes from "Go Northwest! Travel Guide" and from this website: http:/www[dot]gonorthwest[dot]com/BC/Vancouver_Area/Vancouver-Area[dot]htm

Main Characters: Shawn, Juliet

Romantic pairing: Shules

Timeline: Season Five, post "Extradition II: The Actual Extradition" and "In Plain Fright" and "Dual Spires". Minor references to Season Five's "Extradition II: The Actual Extradition", and "In Plain Fright", as well as to Season Four and Season Five in general.

Summary: After extensive convincing, Shawn persuades Juliet to go with him to British Columbia to spend their first Christmas together. When Juliet is delayed by paperwork, Shawn takes their scheduled flight, intending to set up a perfectly romantic surprise for his new girlfriend. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Shawn witnesses a crime in progress and before he can get away, the criminals get him. Will Juliet find him or will she think he flaked on her? How long can Shawn survive sharply drastically low temperatures of the Celsius kind?

(Various) Whumped!- and Disoriented!- and Hypothermic!Shawn

Author's Note: This was a one-shot but I made it a two-shot since it's pretty long. :) Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. Enjoy!

Secret Santa request: "If I get a fic I'm pretty easy to please. Whump makes me happy like most people here, so long as it's not too extreme."

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**Close Encounters Of The Celsius Kind**

A _Psych_ Secret Santa Story for Lozzaacakes

by silverluna

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**Chapter One: So Far Away From Safe And Sound **

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In her arms, he'd been in her arms, and she'd burned his throat with her kisses. This was ages ago, before the frost built on his eyelids, before his lips blued, before his hands bent into white claws. He was lying on his back, having fallen here. The odor of blood had frozen with him, in his nostrils, reminding him dizzily of the nasty wound which had started this whole thing. He was supposed to still be in her arms, not outside a few days before Christmas Eve, slowly losing his mind to the chill.

If only they'd still been at home, there was little chance he would have gotten into this much trouble, or so he told himself. But it was entirely too possible he could have gone to the 7-11 for snacks and ended up smashed in the side of the head with a six-pack or jabbed in the ribs with a shotgun as some thief took off or took over—and he'd need the SBPD to come charging in to help. His father, in a moment of rare concern, leaning over him to check his vitals.

He was a long way from them.

_Kiss me on my neck, twice. Let me know my net worth. Let your warm, peach-scented tresses trail along my arm as I . . . fall asleep, assured that I am dreaming . . . waking, in real time, with you nestled in my arms._

_Instead of this stupid clump of snow, branches, spotted with my own blood. _

_C c C c C_

"Shawn, I'm sorry," Juliet spoke into the phone, her voice soft and careful, as if she weren't alone. "I have a mountain of paperwork to finish before I can get there."

For the first time since he arrived at the airport, Shawn allowed his disappointment to show—and was oddly grateful his girlfriend was not standing across from him to see him acting so childish. "But Jules—" Shawn tried to bite back the whine in his tone; this was not the way to get her to get done with her work faster—instead, it might garner an opposite result. He tipped the mouthpiece of the phone away to let loose an audible huff. "You're just saying that because you don't really want to go to—"

Juliet sighed with frustration. "You know that isn't true," she whispered, but there was a hint of hesitation as she spoke.

"Then why did you let me talk you into it?" Shawn returned, glaring uselessly at his watch. "I know you really wanted to go to Miami—us to go."

"You're very persuasive, Shawn." She deadpanned it, but Shawn took in a note of affection—hope sparked. When he didn't speak, she said, "Please don't take this as some kind of sign I wasn't supposed to go with you—or," she added, "that I'm not excited. But I just can't leave right now—and I can't bribe Carlton to take over my share because I just did that last week so we could go to The Chocolate Festival. He's going to get suspicious—he's paranoid for a living as it is."

Shawn sighed, knowing this was true but not liking one bit of it. But if this was the price they paid for delicious gourmet chocolate body paint, then there was hardly a complaint Shawn could file other than how unfair it was. And he could hardly repeat the whining "Buuuuuuuut I want to spend Christmas with yooooooooooooooooooooooou, Juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuulllllles—where we first kissed—for the second time—" because he didn't want Juliet to slam the phone down like she had slammed the door in his face the first time he'd tried it. When she'd opened the door, he'd tried it again and she'd shut his mouth with a kiss. Then she'd pushed him back outside and slammed the door in his face again.

But he had been prepared and had rang the doorbell constantly until she opened it, and stuck his foot in the door, risking injury should she decide to slam it again.

"Just hear me out," he coaxed, following her to the dining room. She didn't say anything and didn't turn around until she could anchor her hands on the table. Juliet waited, not looking amused.

Shawn pulled a brochure he'd snagged somewhere in his travels from of his back pocket, reading from it in spite of the whole thing being committed to memory. The pictures inside dated the brochure, as did the dull sheen of the yellowing pages, to a heyday of the late nineties, but the services offered had still been mostly valid when Shawn had first called the numbers. When he'd first called, his intent had been to execute the most romantic long weekend for his first steady adult relationship; so many times, the bottom had dropped out. Shawn sighed to himself, feeling the sting of what was past even as he fixed his lips into a smile.

"Listen to this, Jules!" Shawn said, feeling his mood shift in an upswing as he pretended to be reading the words aloud for the first time.

"_The Vancouver Coast and Mountains region, like the rest of British Columbia, comprises a vast and varied topography. Fertile farms, succulent river deltas, arid, rugged canyons, and of course, a teeming metropolis of some of the largest cities in Western Canada make up this expansive region."_

He skipped a rather long description about the merits of journeying up and down on Highway 99, picking up again with the finely detailed words of others expressing the allure of Fraser Canyon.

"_It is this canyon that gives the region its sense of diversity with its cavernous overlooks, 19th-century gold rush landmarks and seemingly untouched pockets of pristine beauty. Well known for river-rafting opportunities and gondola rides across Hells Canyon, the Fraser Canyon offers an alternative route for experiencing the eclectic beauty of the Coast and Mountains region."_

"Shawn," Jules sighed, rolling her eyes deliberately to get his attention. "I've been there. Twice. You really don't have to sell it to me."

Shawn smiled. "Oh, but I think I do. You're hesitating, Jules. How would you like to see Canyon Lights at the Capilano Suspension Bridge? Or take a sleigh ride through an alpine forest on Grouse Mountain? What about a romantic night at the Festival of Lights at the VanDusen Botanical Garden?" His smile was growing wider, his voice pitching a little into a whine he was just now becoming aware of. "We could do all of that, more, whatever you want—just as long as we're there together." Grinning this long was starting to hurt because it wasn't an easy moment where Juliet was taking the delight in with him. She still looked skeptical. He tried another tactic. "We don't have to any of that," he said, dropping his voice. "We could just . . . stay in. Order room service, watch movies on TV."

"We could do that here," Juliet said, as if the romance of their first kiss outside of the United States—unfettered, seemingly unending—was entirely lost on her. "Or . . . we could do that in Miami."

Shawn dropped his smile. "No, we couldn't," he scoffed. "I mean, for the second one. Your family—"

"What about them?" Juliet asked too quickly, making a face akin to the one when Shawn had accused Ewan of wrongdoing—behind her back.

Shawn chewed his lip, not knowing what to say. He had a joke on the tip of his tongue, her family, he pictured, like starving vultures, eager to prey on Juliet's latest fodder. He wondered suddenly if that the bones of that quarterback she briefly dated in Miami weren't somewhere in the kitchen, like a trophy. He swallowed his bad taste. "I'm sure they are sweet," he began, faltering for the rest as he pictured twenty relatives like Ewan, or Henry, or even like Uncle Jack—worse because he wouldn't know anything about them. And what if he "psyched" something about them that might be the start of World War II? Shawn shook his head, guessing he might be off by a number or two. Or three? Five?

"My family is wonderful," Juliet defended. "Lassiter met some of them a few years back. He could—" Juliet closed her eyes as if just realizing the weakness of her argument. She made a face in mild surrender, but still asked, "I don't know why you're afraid of meeting the people who love me, Shawn. Who have supported me through everything."

_And everyone?_ Shawn thought. He knew the real reasons of his fear and hesitation—or at least he thought he did. He decided he wouldn't tell her, and instead made one last plea for what he wanted. "I want to meet your family, I really do, but for our first Christmas, I just want it to be us. I want to celebrate you, how much you mean to me." He saw her eyes twinkling, but he didn't want to be disappointed in front of her if she was only about to laugh. "That's all I wanted to say," Shawn told her. He nodded, and then made himself turn around and leave.

There was a stretch of silence—long enough for him to reach the door before she called out, "You can't just run away from this."

Shawn turned back. He held out his palms. "I sensed you need space to think it over."

Juliet sighed, emotions clashing in her eyes. "You . . . really want to meet my family . . . at some point?"

His face softened. "I do."

Juliet chewed her lip. She waved him to go. "I just want to think," she said.

_C c C_

A toss of hair, blond so light it was almost white, then gone, hidden back into the hood of cloak of snow. He couldn't be sure he actually saw it. His breath came out in harsh wisps, and he reached for the back of his head where it ached. He wasn't actually surprised to put his fingers on a lump, but he couldn't quite remember how hard he'd hit his head. If he was walking, which he was, Shawn realized slowly, then it couldn't have been that hard, that bad.

His shivering went up a notch, and there was nothing he could do to turn it back down. He walked.

_C c C_

The light was saturated with low blues by the next time he opened his eyes—no more stark, startling whites—land almost so devoid of color it made his eyes sting. He wasn't used to this, not any of it, in spite of early on having traveled the world like a drifter, learning to adapt quickly when he had too. He had the distant impression that he'd already struggled to his feet, that he'd been walking as the temperature dropped.

Shawn had managed to book them a room at a modest hotel in Vancouver, though he was mildly disappointed he couldn't find anything available in Whistler. On the website, the hotel looked plain, and the accommodations, he guessed, were likely simple and basic. But all that mattered was that she had said yes, and that they had worked out six days—two for travel and four for spending time together—to make the trip. They were scheduled to fly out on the twenty-second and return on the twenty-seventh; Shawn, by himself, had made all of the plans. He "sensed" that Juliet, having given in to his requests, would expect him to do all the work—and for her and her happiness, Shawn really didn't mind doing the work. But the last minute-ness of the plans had forced him to cut corners; there were little romantic ventures that he could reserve; should they choose to take a sleigh ride or go to for a special dinner, they might have to take their chances or just wait.

Shawn tried not to let these details make him nervous, but his underlying worries of Juliet's initial hesitation still bothered him.

She had been the one to make the first real move—kissing him to shut him up while he was wishing her well with Declan, in spite of being clearly upset that he had missed his chance with her. And before that, she had been the first to confess her feelings for him—and invite him to dinner while he was already on a date with Abigail. He'd kept hesitating, as if he was petrified inside to make the first real move—as if he might only screw up something as good as time with Juliet; the instant attraction he'd felt for her had lasted, strong, for five years. As if . . . she had always belonged to him . . . and perhaps, she'd felt it too.

He remembered choosing Vancouver for his romantic getaway with Abigail because of its boast of mild winter climates, for Canada's standards, anyway. Snow fell, and the temperature did drop below freezing, but these were limited occurrences. Instead, rain was more likely. Gus had explained to him the differences between Celsius and Fahrenheit, but no matter how much he thought about, both two degrees and thirty-five degrees sounded torturous. It had been difficult for him to imagine, especially since Santa Barbara claimed over 300 days of sunshine per year, and with it, for him at least, a temperate climate that had been easy to get reacquainted to, once he was back for good.

Shawn stared up at the sky, having also the distant impression that he'd attempted to familiarize himself with his surroundings only to fail miserably. Everything was white, plain, with hills and a few trees; it looked like the middle of nowhere. There was no picture flickering in his head, no plan at all. If he had walked here from . . . somewhere, what had made him stop? Shawn knew he should be more bothered by the lapse of memory. His body hurt, especially his exposed skin. At first, he didn't remember where the scratches across his hands had come from and wondered if he hadn't done battle with a bush covered with thorns.

Why did he have to be the only witness—why had he had to witness anything at all? He'd made himself get involved after his curiosity had been piqued—go in, look around, access the damage—if Gus had been here, he would have talked Shawn out of it; actually, Shawn seemed to do less well with danger when Gus was not around. Stock still, his mind had worked to make a choice: ignore what he'd seen, at least until he was in a less dangerous place, try to do something now to stop them, or just run away. Then, before, when he had been unseen—his body intact, his bones not mangled, his skin not torn open, his limbs not yet wrecked by low temperatures. He had not yet been tossed in the snow like an unwanted tree the day after Christmas.

_C c C_

"What should I do, Gus?" Shawn asked through the phone, his tone hinting on nervous. The hotel room he'd rented and arrived in just a few minutes before was bare—devoid of rose petals on the bed spread, on the windowsill, on the toilet seat, in the bathtub; no candles; no CD player for romantic music—no CDs, since he'd forgotten to pack the player or CDs.

"Shawn, are you all right?" Gus asked. "You don't have to panic—she's not coming there for the atmosphere."

Shawn sighed, staring at the blank room. He had shared a more romantic room with Gus the first time they'd visited British Columbia—only because Gus was supposed to be Abigail. But this time, his compromising with Juliet had put a cramp in any extended planning—if he wanted romance, he was going to have to build the scene himself. "What should I get? What kinds of scented candles—"

"Shawn."

"This is fine, buddy, I'll just step out and get a few things. Jules might not be able to get a flight out tonight anyway." He sighed.

"Shawn," Gus tried to reassure, "she'll be there."

It had taken quite a bit more comforting and even some bribes on Gus's part for Shawn to get off the phone. Even so, he wasn't sold on his new girlfriend being happy with just the bare bones room. Plus, he had seen too many classic John Hughes 80s films to not at least make an attempt. Shoving the hotel key into his pocket, Shawn headed for the door—only remembering, as his hand was twisting the doorknob that he was not, in fact, in California anymore—and that this climate came with clothing restraints. He was well prepared—as this was the third time he'd entered the country—actually, well prepared because Gus had helped him pack.

As he pulled on the bulky winter coat, the zipper to the jacket's lining caught on the outer jacket, pushing Shawn into having two uncooperative zippers. He fought with both, agonizing that he couldn't work a simple mechanism like a zipper and that it was making him waste precious time getting ready for Juliet's arrival. Frustrated, he pulled both jackets off and fought to unzip the lining from the jacket. It had felt too bulky anyway, when he'd slipped it on at the airport after landing. He thought about leaving it, thinking his trip to get a few candles and roses might be short, but remembered how numb with chill he had felt just walking from the plane to the terminal in only jeans and his long sleeved flannel. He flashed back to some wise information Gus had imparted upon on their very first trip here—layering. Shawn took off his flannel, got the zipper of the liner to connect and zipped it all the way to his neck. He retrieved a sweater he'd brought on his first trip to Vancouver and put it on over the liner, then replaced the flannel, feeling instantly hot as he buttoned all the buttons. He had to check his hair in the mirror, just to make sure it wasn't melting also. Shawn put on the second coat quickly, then made himself slip into the rest of the gear, though he felt as if he were readying himself for a mission to Mars rather than just stepping outside. He checked his watch; it was a quarter to three in the afternoon, and the sky was sprinkled with charming tiny flakes of snow.

He asked at the hotel gift shop for what was within walking distance—and was directed to a block of high end shops he could reach in ten minutes or less. Shawn debated hopping in the rental car, especially when he stepped outside into the chilly air. He tossed a glance over his shoulder at the hotel's doors, remembering the heat he'd felt just before stepping outside. _Maybe,_ he thought, _maybe a walk could take longer than a drive, and maybe that meant less time waiting in the room for her to be here already. _With resolve, Shawn started to walk, wishing that he'd brought his ski pants and squeezed himself inside them.

_C c C_

His ears had burned with cold, he remembered. And his nose—his cheeks had been hit by wind on the walk down the street, around the corner and down a few more streets. Shawn had shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping his eye out for a shop selling what he wanted. His left big toe throbbed, somehow icier than the rest of his toes, and he silently begged for it to warm up—hoping it would as soon as he got inside. He could already imagine Juliet, upon arrival, gushing about his choices, the happy glow upon her cheeks, her eyes sparkling like stars. She was coming . . . Gus had said. He hoped they could go out and get a taste of Christmas in Vancouver, even if they were limited to free or family based events. He couldn't wait to see her in her heavy duty winter coat with the furry collar, her hair combed back and a rosiness on her cheeks that he had only seen up here—maybe it was something to do with higher elevation. He wasn't sure; sometimes, he had a hard time finding "East".

But trouble . . . he knew exactly where that was, even out of town.

_Why hadn't he let her talk him into going to Miami for Christmas to meet her loving family clan?_

Because it would have been awkward, and he would have been put on the spot by not just Juliet's nuclear family but by scads of cousins, aunts and uncles, nephews and possibly friends of the family. He'd already met Ewan on his home turf and that had been interesting—a roller coaster of jealously, admiration and suspicion that Shawn had rather not repeat with the rest of Juliet's family—no matter how innocent the rest of them might be. He couldn't help but notice things. What if . . . he got the hint there was cheating, or embezzlement, or worse, a special aunt's homemade sauce was really store bought? Shawn had chewed his nails ever since the excitement had played on Juliet's face, as if he was really ready to go through with such a huge commitment. After all, it had taken nearly five years for the time to be right for the two of them to get together.

No way. Just the thoughts alone of small talk with doting and overzealous family gave Shawn chills.

He had much less family to introduce Juliet to. She had already met his father and mother; most of his mother's family he'd been estranged from since his childhood, and on his father's side there was only Uncle Jack, and it might be best if they not meet for some time. He could imagine Juliet giving Jack the benefit of the doubt despite the trouble he'd left Shawn in last time he'd been in town, but you never knew.

Instead of that, he'd insisted—pleading and wheedling like a five year old demanding the latest of the holiday season toy craze in a wrapped box with a big red bow on top for Christmas morning—that they spend an ultra-romantic few days in Vancouver, finding all the places they'd christened with their kisses, taking pictures like tourists, going to dinner and generally enjoying the other's company unfettered by work or well-meaning friends or family members.

Shawn groaned. Why didn't they just go to Switzerland? It was just as cold there, just as . . . foreign. Not that the chance was less there that he still wouldn't have witnessed criminal activity, have ended up . . . in this much hot water—how he wished he was in hot water right now!—and pain, hardly able to execute even the bare minimum of his father's long ago survival tactics—mostly because he couldn't move without thinking he was about to die. But maybe if he'd opted for Switzerland, he wouldn't be in so much secret trouble because . . . he might have waited to fly out with his girlfriend instead of going on ahead alone. And then he might have had no urge to leave the safety of their hotel room to go in search of all the pain money could buy. And he hadn't even had the chance to spend a dime.

Shawn looked at the sky, forcing his eyes to stay open. Slowly, he flexed his muscles, doing a mental check of what hurt the most under the layer of ice that had surely grown across his skin, as if he were lying just under the surface of a hole in a lake or pond that had iced over.

_So . . . so . . . cold,_ he thought for the hundredth time, chattering teeth becoming a familiar rhythm. He guessed, from the change in the sky, that at least three or four hours had passed. The stars had come out and were blinking their hellos as he shivered in the snow. He had taken to balling his hands up inside the sleeves, wrenching his arms together to hold against his body, anything to not be so cold.

_C c C_

Breath on his cheek, a chilly wind. Breath was supposed to be warm, he thought, surprised he could still put his brain in gear. A toss of hair. He couldn't see a face, but the gesture was clear. _Follow. Get up. Follow._

Shawn squeezed his eyes shut, hoping again this was just a nightmare that he would awake from, shaking in his bed, his hotel room having no heat or adequate blankets. Something easily explainable—and complain-able.

Cold, like individual icy digits, pressed on the hollows of his knees. Shawn whimpered.

A swirl of snow. A toss of white.

_C c C_

Shawn exhaled, then inhaled shallowly. His eyes opened again and he stared at the sky; just a few minutes—seconds? hours?—before, the sky had turned black, hard and shiny, dotted with the haloed jewels of millions of stars, constellations, planets. Jewels . . . Jules. Huh. Shawn's eyes moved. Wasn't she, like a rare stone, a precious and pricey—his vision blurred. Jewel—Jules. She was his irreplaceable star.

He wanted to go to sleep, but he was just too cold to let his body relax; the amount of clothing he wore didn't matter because he'd been lying in the snow for an undeterminable time; they'd stripped him of his coat, leaving him only with the separate durable lining of the coat, his sweater and his flannel, his jeans, his socks and sneakers. It was a small grace—not that they were trying to do him favors: his hat and gloves were also in their possession; his scarf he had because they'd used it to tie his hands together. He'd managed to get it wrapped around his head Rambo-style before the need to lie down on his back had overwhelmed him.

It was only then, while he was down not wanting to get back up, that he considered using the scarf to tie off the gash on his leg, the injury sustained as he'd tried to run away. The injury that had got him caught, in a way. Or was it an injury he'd received as an "I told you so"—as he was caught doing something he shouldn't? He sighed, watching his breath stream out. Why was it murderers and other various inhabitants of the underbelly refused to observe the holidays? Take a day, maybe two, stay home with their gangs, have brandy and eggnog, eat cookies—have dreams of sugar plums and BMX bikes and fancy electronics and bootleg Rick Astley albums they were going to fence the next day? Yeah. If he ruled the world.

Jewel—ry. That's what he'd seen them stealing. He had been minding his own business—had opened the door to an inviting if not overpriced-seeming boutique with a display of white candles in the window. The heat in the store pushed on his face, and he'd been grateful to be out of the cold weather. The door had not announced his arrival with bells; it swung closed quietly. With a few quick swivels of his head, he took in the set up and contents of the boutique, more deep than it was wide—ultra feminine with various gifts and knickknacks mixed into an array of more useful products, like candles and soap, silk flowers, mirrors, and combs. The shop smelled of just baked bread and cinnamon and vanilla, and made Shawn heady with the possibilities of what he could create in the hotel room to perfectly excite and entice Juliet.

Shawn wandered around, not daring to reach for anything until he was sure what he wanted. There was no clerk at the counter, he noticed, and no other shoppers, but he held his tongue from calling out a hello. Further in, Shawn's eye caught on a gleaming object—a large triangle of glass, he saw, that looked folded backwards in its case—a jewelry case, he realized. It was a separate room, dimly lit, and set back from the other merchandise. He went closer, a lump inexplicably forming in his throat. He could see a door beyond the few cases of the room, standing open a quarter of the way.

The clerk must be within, he decided, though his palms were starting to sweat, and he felt unnerved for reasons he couldn't immediately place. Shawn stood in the small room and looked, not daring to breathe. A scenario was quickly forming in his head, as was the dangerous allure to catch a criminal in the act—to piece the reasons why together in a flash and then monologue and make himself a citizen's arrest—pausing this train of thought only to wonder if this might be illegal in Canada or not. He could be wrong—making mountains out of molehills—but he wanted to take the risk.

Bright lights illuminated the jewelry cases—most of which were smashed. Not all of the jewelry was missing; as he cast his glances around in the dimness, he gathered that the thief had been looking for something specific. After all, the rest of the store looked untouched. He heard a noise coming from the door, and followed a sliver of light towards an open office door, pausing and holding his breath once he had a good enough vantage point. He saw it all quickly: a body of a woman on the floor, ash blond hair tossed over her face. She was wearing white, was face down, arms outstretched by her head—could have been sleeping; Shawn hadn't seen any blood. And _three_ men, suited up in well-worn winter clothing, unloading the contents of a wall safe into a sack.

They'd had no guard or watchman; but must have meant serious business if they'd already killed someone over the contents. They had their backs to him, which was a good thing, except that if he saw their faces, he'd be able to identify them to proper authorities. Or at least the RCMP, that might have to do. He waffled as his heart fluttered, trying to gauge what he should do.

They could have guns, he considered. Or knives. Or tasers. And there were three of them; with their backs turned to him, it was hard to tell their shapes and sizes. Three against one . . . might be bad odds. He reached for his phone, suddenly wishing he'd added the RCMP's direct line to his contacts list. He scrolled through them anyway, thinking maybe Gus had been one step ahead.

Shawn began to back away, moving as silently as possible around the jewelry cases. His heart accelerated as his sneaker crunched a piece of broken glass.

There was still a good amount of rustling and searching in the office for them not to notice—so he thought, until one gray head jerked in his direction, catching him like a deer in headlights at the right angle through the yellow light. Shawn exhaled with apprehension; they had locked eyes, and the gaunt man staring back at him did not look forgiving.

"_Hey!_ Hey, you!"

Shawn pivoted 180 degrees, but his sneakers skated on some of the broken glass at his feet. He pitched forward into one of the broken display cases, only managing to save his whole body from falling in by breaking his fall with his arms. Shawn winced, seeing the bloody streaks on both hands as he forced himself to straighten quickly, realizing as he did that he had been cut elsewhere—a searing, unreal pain that for a second stopped his breath—and there was already blood staining his jeans. _Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun,_ his mind demanded while his eyes grew bleary.

He lost precious seconds of thought and movement as his adrenaline faltered—his brain was telling his body that it ached everywhere and his mind was negotiating for the briefest period of unconsciousness. _Runrunrunrunrunrun._ Shawn forced himself to stumble forward, using the frame of the display case to help him. He heard angry voices, glass crunching like well-packed snow underfoot. Shawn breathed hard, scrambling to make up for lost time as he sprinted for the door. The wound on his leg throbbed with each step, but he told himself the best thing he could right now was get himself far away. Later, he might discover it had pierced his jeans and cut him half an inch deep, but that was what later was for.

Shawn busted through the outside door, intent on putting distance between himself and the unknown criminal element he'd managed to get tangled up with. His thoughts bled and blurred. _RUN._ _Why was this always happening? RUN. Had Gus tagged his back with a sign that said, "Show me your murder" or "I never met a murder I couldn't solve"? RUNRUNRUNRUN. _

Shawn's shoes skidded on the pavement as if it were icy, too icy for him to remain upright. He panted hard from a squat, able to see his breath, and scanned the area so he could pick the best direction in which to head—zig zag—then lurched ahead without much planning, hearing them catching up too fast.

He was limping, the searing pain in his leg slowing him down, but Shawn continued to race in pace with his heartbeat, trying to determine the direction of the hotel. He could make it in less than ten minutes, he knew he could. Unless he fell.

He had to get back to her. If she got here and he wasn't . . . what would she think? Shawn ran faster, even though each step felt like he was running in bare feet across broken glass. He gritted his teeth. They were gaining; they either knew what he had seen or thought he may have witnessed even the smallest sight and that could not go unpunished. Shawn's sneakers slid on a patch of ice, his breath coming out in huffs, his tongue going dry. He couldn't swallow. He flailed, struggling for balance, but their arms were on his, wrenching his torso backwards while his feet were still sliding out from underneath him.

Shawn yelped, his breath still panting between his words. His muscles were screaming; he was just realizing how fast, how far he had run, and his injured leg burned as if he'd stepped too close to a burning building, as if his skin was about to melt off, his perfect hair singeing before too crisping up like dry logs.

_Three sets of hands, three voices—like three ghosts of Christmas—why had they _all_ followed him? Hunted him down? This was his first real thrill of fear—now that he was caught. _

"How much did you see?" a gruff voice accosted him, straight into his left ear, yanking him upright by his elbows; pain cracked down to his fingertips. "Answer me!"

"Don't . . . don't know what you're . . ." Shawn panted, staring straight ahead of him because they were keeping him from turning around. Fear hit him with a shiver; they had his arms pinned to his sides; he had a terrible feeling if he tried to scramble with his feet he might just get tossed over one of these dudes' shoulders, or so was the feeling that his shoes were no longer on the ground—though they were.

"You're lying! You were watching us!" Another voice, another male—maybe the thin one in the gray cap, with the worn fingerless gloves. Maybe it was his cold fingerprints which had Shawn's right arm by the wrist.

"This is a misunderstanding," Shawn fibbed, forcing a smile into his voice. Sometimes, he knew enough to play dumb, unless his mouth got him into too much trouble anyway. "I thought . . . someone told me . . . I wanted to get a necklace for my girlfriend . . . I thought . . ." The lies were easy, on his tongue, but he had no idea if they would help or hurt his cause at this point.

"Who?" the gruff voice yelled. "Who told you?"

"I don't know who," Shawn lamented, unable to help sounding annoyed. "Look, all I wanted was . . . the jewelry. I wanted to pay—" He made himself swallow the rest, because he could hear the buzz of rage behind him; he had just confessed to them that he had seen them steal the jewelry and whatever it was that was so important from the safe and that he was trying to get a piece of the action, as if he were some kind of thrill-seeker, some kind of blackmailer, some kind of moron. "Something special," he mumbled. "She's special and I wanted . . . special for her." He made himself not add that they must not be killers, thieves weren't often killers, but often enough they were. Or could be, if forced into a corner. "I'm sorry," Shawn whispered, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. "I didn't want . . . trouble. Please . . . let me walk away?" The inflection was important; he was still holding out hope they might turn him loose.

The slanted, clipped voice, masculine and mean, echoing in his brain long after it had spoken, long after its person, and the other men, had gone. _"I know where we can dump him. Yeah, it's remote. He won't be found." _

_There must be bruises on his face; he'd been spun around long enough to take in the angry, distorted faces of the three thieves who had chased him, caught up to him, questioned him—and then smacked him in the face—they each took at least one turn, knocking him in the nose, the lip, the eye. Their stocky or lanky bodies swathed in layers of clothing, hands gloved, heads in hats—their features were twisted with greed and fear, their eyes were beady and angry and as cold as the temperature outside, measured by Celsius, making it seem even colder than it should be. Shawn's head jerked from side to side; he tasted blood and spit it once before his feet slid forward, out from under him, his back and shoulders barely breaking the fall for his head, which cracked the ice on the pavement beneath it. Daylight stars that blurred, white, that twinkled too much, and blood, streaking across the sky like a comet. Shawn went to sleep. _

Labored walking to match his labored breathing. Shawn's nose was frozen solid, his cheek bones and eyebrows and the part in his hair reminded him constantly of the cold this cold ached, and he guessed, despite the lapse of time where he was unconscious, that he must not have been out there long enough to warrant this kind of hurt—where his breathing was shallow, where his inhales were painful, his nostrils burned. Even his eyeballs felt pierced by the cold, a truly unsettling thought. He flinched, and his skin rustled—a prickling inside—which let him know his body was still hanging on. He kept walking, hoping to send the hurt packing, even though, with each step, his leg throbbed from where he'd injured it, and his toes slammed against the insides of his boots hard enough to break into bits.


	2. Chapter 2: I Was Looking Back At You

**Chapter Two: I Know You've Seen Fire, But You've Never Seen Fire; I Was Looking Back To See If You Were Looking Back At Me**

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_C c C_

_In her arms, he'd been in her arms. She had let her hair down, his petite Rapunzel, and they had shared a few mouthfuls of kisses before she had to button herself back up, look professional, and Shawn had to do his best to look innocent. They always had plenty of work to do; crime, like NYC, never slept. _

Wasn't that just eons ago? _Ice Ages_ ago—there had been four movies released, that he knew of. Shawn writhed in his bed of snow. Despite the pain which throbbed through his limbs, a constant, like breath—(still there)—and pulse, Shawn slowly convinced himself he could get back on two feet. There would be plenty of time to moan like a three-year-old once he was in shelter and could aptly manipulate someone he knew well to care for him—and who knew him well back.

His father would never do.

No matter. Henry was nowhere in this equation. Shawn, adjusting to his upright sitting position, imagined Gus racing into the country on a whim—learning Shawn had been so hurt. On the phone, Gus hadn't sounded ready to drop his holiday plans, but at the time, Shawn hadn't been _dying_. Smugly, Shawn felt the satisfaction of knowing he had Gus wrapped around his little finger.

After a few proud moments, the satisfaction melted away—a difficult thing to do in such a climate. Shawn lurched on the ice, his body feeling hollow as he was certain he was about to fall. When he didn't, Shawn naturally retreated to the smugness, the self-denial, but underneath it all he felt the coldness—emotional, this time, seeping into his bones. Blue, white, crystalized and sharp—it was unrelenting and on a warpath, telling him bluntly that he was wholly unloved—that his days of crying wolf were finally catching up with him.

Shawn slipped, jarring his knees on the hard ground. His breath came out in a white cloud; he marveled, seeing the shape of it, how large it was—as if every single he word he uttered was important enough to be _seen_.

His heart fluttered. He needed to get up. He told himself so, but found himself staring at the alien landscape of snow, of giant pine trees, of hills and rocky terrain—how badly he wanted to be at home. In her arms. Shawn swallowed; it hurt, a deep, dead ache, thinking of her, thinking of the fierceness in which she broke him with kisses, as if he had been lost at sea, or a POW, gone for years and years. Kissing him, marking him as hers, never again to let him go.

_She'll . . . find . . . my excuses . . . lame,_ Shawn thought distantly, wondering if Juliet would chide him for following "psychic visions" in place of picking his cell phone to give her a head's up. He'd . . . been . . . about to, hadn't he? He recalled getting it out, then there had been blood on his hands. But even far away . . . her advice . . . her voice . . . could be useful. His "visions" weren't to blame; it his pure desire to make her happy that had sent him out into the cold weather—and his ego and bad luck which had left him out there.

_What if she . . . finds my absence . . . typical? If she . . . leaves?_ Shawn swallowed, aware of the fear settling around him in the indentions his body had made in the snow—in the halo of the angel, clinging to him. A little voice told him to move, move now, in spite of the pins and needles activated in his legs and arms when he tried. Shawn pushed his palms into the ground, ignoring the burning as his bare hands met, dug into, the hard-packed white stuff. His limbs creaked inside his head, but he did his best, struggling for what seemed like hours to sit up. Shawn panted, and he leaned forward to gape at the gash on his leg.

It was still oozing blood; had split the denim of his jeans. He tried to glare at it reproachfully, but this took much concentration. Shawn crab-walked a few paces, his arms shaking like string cheese; it hurt to move, which could mean one of three things, he deduced: The cut on his leg was infected; He'd been injured when they dropped him here—possibly injured on the way here or when he was literally dropped; Or that his muscles and body ached from proximity to the cold without proper layering. The air was cold, the wind colder.

Without understanding how, Shawn was on his feet again, taking labored steps and realizing, gratefully, that they hadn't thought to take his shoes. His jeans were soaked, felt heavy, as if he'd fallen into the ocean wearing all of his clothes. But he just started to walk in an arbitrary direction, choosing it because it was the one least distorted by the more steps he took. He had enough in him to still admire the thick, sturdy pines and the pink light in the sky, but was put off by the fact that the sun was going down; those were too many hours he had lost, and he didn't even know where he was.

_Follow me._ A woman in white, a swirl of snow, in the distance. _Follow me._ He lumbered towards her, his sneakers skidding on a gentle hill. She was a swirl of snow.

Shawn shivered as he had shivered for what must be hours now. He thrust his hands into the pockets in the jacket's lining, wondering again if he should do something to wrap up that wound. Maybe he was wrong about its oozing; for this vantage point the blood seemed congealed; maybe he was just making a mole hill out of a mountain.

_Is . . . that . . . right?_ Shawn thought to himself fuzzily. _Mountain . . . mountain . . ._ He squinted, trying to judge if the hills he saw were sloping, if they were high enough to be . . . mountains. The snow was thick; the pace in which it was falling, he noticed as he glanced over his shoulder, was steadily covering his tracks—or was that right? He squinted again, seeing his own footprints in the fresh and packed snow the unusual way they appeared on the ground, as if he were wearing skis. His footprints were longer, as if he were swishing his feet as he walked, wanting, like a child, to leave a lasting impression in a pool full of water, when such a thing wasn't possible.

_Arm pits,_ a little voice said inside his head.

"What?" Shawn asked aloud, perturbed immediately that his tongue felt thick in his mouth. His stomach was tight but he had a sudden urge to cup a few handfuls of snow into his mouth.

"_I have a mountain of paperwork to finish before I can get there." _This voice was not his own, it was an echo . . . it was her voice—how they had embraced the last time they'd been on the same soil— "Supposed to be with her," Shawn mumbled, working his tongue over his teeth to try to loosen the glue in his mouth—it felt like glue. _Mountain . . . she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes . . . when she comes . . . _They had disagreed about the most ridiculous things . . . time with family. _When she comes . . . _

"_Shawn, she'll be there."_ Gus, his old buddy, his Relient K. Shawn couldn't remember what the K stood for, or if it stood for anything at all. Klown. Killer Klowns. From Outer Space. Nah. Gus couldn't feign stimulation of the kooky, ooky or spooky well enough to give into the joys of a three minute, three mile per hour haunted house ride at Scarefest; though it was actually his father who had the irrational fear of Klowns. Clowns, too. He kept walking.

_Arm pits,_ the voice reminded. _Arm. Pits. Piiiiiiiitttts._ He wanted to ignore this voice, not knowing whose it was; it could have been his father's voice and Shawn wasn't sure he wanted Henry repeating various body parts at this particular moment. "Say sumthin else," Shawn said drowsily, though he didn't feel tired. The shivering was keeping his body aware—aware of the cold. He didn't dare look or touch at his hands again but his face felt blue; numb as his toes, his ankles and legs stiff with cold.

He could still smell the blood, taste what might be a frozen hunk of his own lip that may have once been saturated with blood. _Pits. Arm pits. Arm pits. Groin._

He wandered, not recognizing any of the terrain, and wondered if he could just keep walking if his body might warm up. Inside his pockets, his hands were hard and cracked, might as well have been rocks he was clutching. The light was changing, the darker parts dissipating. He still felt hard and every muscle shook within in him. Shawn had long ago stopped feeling his hands and his toes; the crown of his head throbbed and his face . . . he wished it was numb but it felt huge, bloated. His jeans were still partially wet. Shawn staggered as he walked, squinting, breathing hard as if he'd been running. The cold had extra appendages which squeezed his chest, clutched his throat, flicked his eyes and pulled his hair. It punched the backs of his knees and bit at the wound on his leg all relentlessly, yet Shawn walked still. His heart was in overdrive, and his fast breath wasn't doing a thing to encourage it to slow. He felt doomed.

He knew he was. He kept walking. He had to get away. Unless he fell.

He fell. His legs were unreliable, his knees bending when they should straighten, or locking up when they should bend. He tried to get them to behave, but his body didn't like him right now. Strangely disappointed, Shawn bent his creaky elbows and ripped the scarf from his head. He struggled to wrap his leg tightly, finally remembering his teeth. Shawn worked his jaw until it opened and he clamped down on the end of scarf.

He felt should feel satisfied by the accomplishment but Shawn felt like crying.

His body shook violently, and he curled up into himself, drawing his knees toward his chest in an last ditch effort to warm himself. He again heard his father's voice urging him to stick his hands into his armpits, and he finally listened, because there was nothing left to do. Shawn bent his neck so his nose was touching the collar of the lost jacket's liner. It wasn't much, but it was a tiny bit—a spot of his skin—that was _going_ to be warm.

Cold air on his cheek. Shawn gave away a small reserve of energy—a tiny burst he'd saved up after tying the scarf—in a pained wail.

Shawn guessed he might be hallucinating, chasing after a woman cloaked with white, beckoning him to follow her with a vacant toss of her head backwards. He couldn't be certain she wasn't just a swirl of snow, but he kept up after her. _Maybe . . . it's Jules, _he thought, thinking that it could be, that it was possible, somehow. She'd come, and she'd put on her sturdy coat and she'd . . . be coming round the mountain.

_Getupgetupgetupgetup._ He crawled to his knees. Shawn moaned, in agony. Getting shot had actually been a picnic, after all. He used his elbows to help him, not wanting to pull his hands out; they were crossed across his chest, under the sweater and flannel but not the liner. He was afraid to touch his covered skin with his own hands—it might be pawns of eternal freeze tag by now. He might not ever unfreeze.

As he stood up shakily, something started hitting him in the head, over and over and over and over again. Sharp pellets, breaking apart once they hit him, yet not managing to pierce his skin. Shawn was baffled. He tried to walk again, hoping he could walk himself out of it. He could hear them hitting the soft fabrics of the clothes he still wore, then dying out, as if smothered. But they continued to fall on him, and seemed to be attracted to him, clinging to him, refusing to let go.

After a while, Shawn thought he was melting; he blinked furiously, feeling wetness on his face, then stinging as if he were being attacked by thousands of bees on his exposed ears: they were, too, dripping, as if the ice that had formed around his body was melting off. Shawn risked a glance skyward; he staggered, more disoriented changing his direction of sight. The sky was a blurry tapestry of blackness and sparkling, silver jewels; there wasn't even a sliver of moon to give the illusion of heat. How . . . how could he be melting then? Wetness, tiny punches hit the back of his neck, ran down his legs and into his socks. It hurt to walk more than it had before and Shawn wanted to stop, but his heart was racing in his throat so fast it was hard to catch his breath. If he stopped, would he turn to stone? Or ice? If he stopped, would he just melted away? But if he was melting, why didn't he feel warmth? His extremities raged, but inside his skin, Shawn could barely separate one finger or toe from the next: they felt like one solid glob of flesh—now burning with a dull fire.

It was the last thing he really needed; he had already been half wet. Now that he was on fire, and still felt no warmth from it, Shawn wished it would just cease and desist, return to the sky and leave him with the cold he'd been hating on before. No more dreaming of fire, of hot chocolate and hot baths and summer days in Santa Barbara, soups and hot meals, plying his body with blankets or pulling Juliet close to him as he feel into sleep—she was a human space heater, warming his toes which sometimes got a chill when the blankets happened to be pulled off of them. No more dreaming . . . of her, no more. Shawn made his pleas silently, unable to speak aloud because he was certain an icy hand had already reached into his throat and yanked out his voice, and then had sealed his lips with a quick, icy kiss.

Not her.

A swirl of snow beckoned, and blearily, Shawn went towards it, his steps heavy. He lost track of how many steps he took before he had a sudden urge to remove the very last piece of fabric he'd strapped across his chest before shrugging into the de-linered winter coat. He had no idea if he could use his numb fingers to undo each button, or if he even still had strength to tear the fabric—let alone remove his hands from his arm pits. Before him, he guessed the reason for the urgency, though his vision blurred several times so he couldn't be clear about what he was seeing.

Dripping gold, dripping amber, two bodies locked in an embrace—man, woman—shrouded with a golden luminescence brighter than the blankness of the snow. Leaning into a kiss. In his arms. She was in his arms, and he was safe. Hot, so hot, blazing so much it almost hurt, and he went towards it, ignoring how hot he felt, as if his face was melting off, as if his hair was getting singed. He just needed to be free. He could no longer work his lips but his tongue was ready to help him, even his brain was lagging on what words were.

Dripping silver, dripping white. A sculpture of snow, of ice. Where was the fire? The closer he got to it, even at his sluggish pace, even as he reached it, he realized he had been mistaken . . . there was no fire, was no gold. Despondent, Shawn leaned against the hunk of whiteness nearly as tall as he was, wanting for tears as his eyes just burned. His face was already wet and puffy anyway. His weight—still significant enough—pushed away the hunks of snow. He staggered to the right, his surprise delayed when his body jarred a solid object.

Shawn blinked and blinked and blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. It looked like . . . he blinked. It looked like . . . a mailbox. It wasn't . . . possible to suffer the hallucinations of heat related mirages in some frozen wasteland . . . was it? Shawn's thoughts were fuzzy. Mailbox. Mailbox. Mailbox. The thought repeated so many times that word stopped making sense. Shawn started walking again, keeping his head down.

It if was true . . . or if it was false . . . he didn't want to know.

Noise, ahead of him. Maybe, more mirages—reminders of hallucinations—and no hallucinations were as good as the real Juliet O'Hara. His eyes were closing as he walked. More noise, he couldn't make out any individual sounds. Time, it was time to. . . . Just a few. Could he manage a few words? A swirl of snow at his feet. He knew he'd said he wouldn't, but Shawn asked for her, for Juliet anyway. He couldn't speak, but her name was screaming in his brain.

He'd run out of time. Shawn's knees clicked mechanically, locking on his next two staggered steps forward. He tripped, unable to break his fall.

_C c C c C_

_In her arms, he was in her arms. _

Shawn so much wanted to be content with this, but against his will his active mind came awake. His eyelids fluttered but didn't open all the way. Warm. Snug. He was being held tightly, arms around him. His fingers clasped into loose fists; Shawn's breath came out in a stream. Warm. A shiver took his skin and he felt the grasp pull him in. He could hear someone else's beating heart.

_No . . . way._ He shifted, and the thing or person holding him shifted. Then: a hand on his scalp, pushing his hair.

"Shawn?" a voice breathed. "Shawn? Are you awake?"

He knew her name, tried to speak it but it exited his mouth like a garbled blur. "Julblob."

After a few seconds, she sighed, clutching his back as if he were the most precious of cargo. "It's . . . so good to hear your voice again."

Crying, she was. A tear dropped onto his face. Warm.

"Is this real?" he asked, or tried to ask, inhaling the baked peach cobbler scent of her skin as he pulled back from her embrace—just enough so he could tilt his head up and see her—and be assured he wasn't clinging to a tree, breathing in snow or rain instead. Juliet's eyes were wet, looking at him, and he shivered again.

Juliet looked alarmed. "Are you still cold?" she asked, reaching for the blankets draped around his shoulders, releasing his back so she could pull the blankets snugger. He didn't like the hollow feeling—the sense of tumbling backwards and down—that he experienced when his body lost contact with even one of her hands. Through his clothes—and the blankets around him, around them, he could still tell that a little bit of her was missing from him. "Shawn?" she asked when he hadn't spoken, being too busy trying to memorize her face—unnecessarily—as she took care of him.

"I'm . . . alive?" Shawn asked, feeling out the words in his head before he spoke them aloud, worried that they might be coming out in mumbled globs. Juliet pressed her hand against the back of his skull, careful not to touch his sensitive lump.

"Yes, Shawn," she breathed close to his ear.

"I'm . . . not dead?" He had to have this clarified. He felt her stroke his hair, her fingers sliding down his neck. He shivered again, but not out of coldness.

Juliet brought her hand to his chin, gently tilting his head up to see her. "No, you're not, but this is some kind of heaven right here, isn't it?"

Her breath smelled of peppermint tea; one whiff sent Shawn's stomach into a miniature tizzy. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten, or even had anything to drink that wasn't blood or snow.

"Did you kiss me to wake me up?" he asked, his dry lips parted just enough.

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"Where are we?" He turned his head to look around, but she kept him close, as if she needed to memorize his face.

"Safe," she said. "Somewhere safe from harm." Her sharp blue eyes pinned him, then her lips fell on his and burned them, pulling him to her. She broke off and nuzzled his cheek. "Shawn," she sighed, "going on vacation with you isn't supposed to mean launching an investigation." She was chiding but it was light—he could tell she was just as grateful that he was, as she'd put it, safe—from harm.

"Where are we?" he asked again. Juliet stroked his hair, touched his cheek, as if she hadn't heard him. His heart sped up, and his neck arched in thrill of fear. "What day is it, Jules?"

"It's early morning on Christmas Day," she said, putting her hand on his cheek to bring him back to her. "What's wrong?"

"My leg, I hurt it," he began, his voice stuttering, out of nowhere. "My head—"

"Shhh," Juliet soothed. "The doctors checked you out and released you—patched up that cut and gave me antibiotics to give to you. It will be sore, but it missed your femoral—just a glorified scratch, really."

"That's easy for you to say," Shawn mumbled, suddenly aware of his bandaged hands. He remembered also cutting them, long ago, and now wondered if there were angry, white scars tight against the skin.

"You were lucky—you're like a cat with 1001 lives, Shawn. They estimated you spending a little over 24 hours outside, overnight, in the snow, with low temperatures, and rain. You suffered moderate hypothermia, but after a two day watch and an intense active external rewarming process—which I was notified you responded well to, almost immediately—they released you to me. You suffered some frost nip, but there's no permanent damage."

He stared at her, amazed—she was so calm delivering this news, but then again, she did have two days to get it sorted out in her head. Because she knew he would come through this, come back to her. "Hypothermia?" Shawn repeated, seeing the blue of her eyes and wondering if his appendages had turned blue. He couldn't process the rest of what she had said, but he remembered how frigid his body had been. He tried to smile, thinking just how stupid that was that he hadn't figured it out, but his lips wouldn't move. Dizzy, suddenly, he pulled on her to lie down. Juliet shifted him gently, helping him rest against the pillows. They were on a rather large pullout couch, he saw, in a picturesque setting—like a log cabin—with relatively bare decor. He itched, suddenly, to spruce it up—light a fire in the stone fireplace, place candles, even a stocking or two, across the mantles. Shawn shivered again, and bit his lips hard. His fingers snaked out for her, finding her hands quickly.

"Shawn, what is it?" Juliet asked, ever attentive.

"I should have listened to you," he moaned. He understood now that Juliet had spent her bartered free days searching tirelessly for him—time that she might have been able to spend with her rather large family instead. "We should have gone to Miami—"

"Oh," Juliet muttered, looking down. "Shawn, I'm sorry I pressured you. It's just . . . it's been so long since I found someone really good—a real, good guy that I"—she blushed, changing her train of thought—"and I was too eager to share you—I just want everyone to get to know you the way I do."

"I hope not _everyone_, Jules," Shawn quipped. "You can't just pass me around like a piece of meat."

Juliet's jaw dropped. She only managed to stop herself from punching his shoulder from how miserable he still looked. "What happened to you, Shawn? I took a red eye out on the twenty-second, then took a taxi to the hotel and found you gone. At first, I didn't know what to make of it. I tried calling you a few times, but—"

Shawn shook his head, not knowing what had happened to his phone. This was the embarrassing part, now that he wasn't dead, having to explain to her why he wasn't where he should have been. "I screwed up, Jules," Shawn admitted, his voice scratchy, but he started to talk about it, telling her what he'd done, and more importantly, why. "When I got to the hotel . . ." He frowned. "It was just an ordinary room. No rose petals on the toilet seat, or on the bedspread."

Juliet pressed her fingers to her lips as he spoke. "FYI—I'm with Gus. Rose petals on the toilet seat—too much."

"I just thought . . . I wanted it to be special, Jules. So I thought if I went out and got a few things, it would help—and you'd feel like you made the right decision coming here with me." Unexpectedly, his eyes teared up. "We were disagreeing," Shawn said. "I didn't want you to get here and think I hadn't made an effort for romance, so I . . . went out to get some things. But instead, I walked in on a crime in progress—a robbery. They saw me, I ran, they chased me, got me and tossed me out in the snow without most of the winter clothes Gus packed for me."

"Shawn, it's not your fault you're a danger magnet," Juliet said sincerely, burying her head in his chest as she hugged him. When she pulled back from their embrace, she kissed him tenderly on the lips. "Shawn, of course being with you is the right decision. It doesn't matter where we are—just that we're together." She smiled.

"Did you find me?"

She shook her head. "I went to look for you as soon I talked to Gus. He told me about your phone call hours before. Your not being there felt wrong," Juliet explained. "You wanted this so badly for the two of us. . . . As soon as I found our rental car in the parking garage, I went to the RCMP. I persuaded them to trace your cell phone—and it led us to a little boutique a few blocks from our hotel. Your phone was inside a broken jewelry case." Juliet frowned, and Shawn wondered if she was seeing the scene in her head—the broken glass coated with his blood. "That's were the RCMP talked to the clerk—the only witness. She needed medical attention, but she told them what she knew."

"She?" Shawn repeated. "Was she a woman in white?"

Juliet stared at him curiously, as if still fascinated how he did what he did. "That's what I was told, actually, in passing," she remarked. "I didn't get to talk to her or see her myself, because they were in a hurry to get her to a hospital."

The clerk, Shawn now remembered. She had been wearing white, lying face down on the floor. _Playing_ dead. He hadn't remembered speaking while inside, but between the three bad men, at least one or two must have. He listened as Juliet explained just what he figured had happened, that they'd marched her in the back to open the safe but had knocked her out before she could see them, that she woke and waited, petrified but not daring to move until they'd left, and then heard someone come in to the store, then run away. As soon as she assumed they were gone, she got up and ran to the door herself, just in time to see the action, long distance. She had then sat down and fallen asleep on the floor due to her head injury, and wasn't found until Juliet came to retrieve Shawn's cell phone.

It didn't make sense, didn't at all, but he found himself shaping the words, maybe more for Juliet than for himself.

"I followed her," Shawn said.

"Who?"

"The woman in white," Shawn rasped.

"Shawn," Juliet said quietly, sounding concerned.

"I followed her—she was snow," he continued. He moved a hand towards his forehead, for show. It might be easier for his girlfriend to believe his hallucination was part of some spirit work—that he'd been touched from the other side. Heck, it might be easier if _he_ tried to believe it, even just for these few minutes. "And I . . ." He remembered, the very last thing he had seen . . . and then touched with his body, the last solid and first mundane object he'd found after hours and hours of wandering stiffly, frozen to the bone. "Mailbox."

"Mailbox?" Juliet repeated, then breathed a sigh. "You must mean the little house you found—and the elderly couple who found you. They brought you to a clinic—and you were transferred to a hospital—and that's where I was sent. You had an excellent prognosis, Shawn." She sighed again. "I _did_ kiss you to wake you up in the hospital—and I got my wish."

"I always land on my feet, like you said," Shawn muttered with a smile.

"That's not quite what I said." Juliet kissed his cheek. "And to answer your question—this is a two room bed and breakfast outside of Whistler. You weren't quite strong enough to go back to the other hotel and I didn't want to push it. How do you feel?" She snuggled up against him, pulling the blankets up. "Do you need anything?"

Shawn looked at Juliet with gratitude, holding on to her as she got in close. "I feel happy," Shawn said. "Merry Christmas, Jules."

"Merry Christmas," Juliet returned. She nuzzled his chest. "I'm so happy you're safe."

"Me too. There is one thing I need," Shawn began. He felt the kind of warmth he was used to, here—from the land of 300 days of sunshine—all emanating from her.

Juliet tilted her head to look at his face. "What's that?"

"At least one more day here with you. After today and tomorrow, I mean."

"How about three?"

His mouth dropped open. "Really? How?"

"Doctor's orders. Then again, you might not be well enough to move until after New Year's," Juliet continued with a mischievous smile. "We'll have to see." She wrapped her arms around him.

In her arms, he was in her arms. _I'm the luckiest fake psychic alive,_ Shawn thought. "Maybe until _well_ after New Year's?" he asked, grinning. He leaned against her, soaking up her warmth, marveling in it. She smelled like sunshine and hot peach cobbler.

"You know, Shawn Spencer, Christmas mornings as a kid were never . . . as good as this," Juliet admitted. "But maybe next year, you could hold off on the disappearing acts until—well, never is what works best for me."

"Does it?" Shawn asked. He was starting to feel like his old self. "I'll see what I can do. But I am a danger magnet, like you said."

"You didn't need me to tell you that."

"No, but it's nice to hear you say it."

Juliet raised an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

He shrugged. "Because knowing you know about me means I will always trust you will be there—even if I'm not in any danger but just need a hug. Or a snack."

She laughed. "A snack, really? Shawn, it's been five years. You're not about to get rid of me _that_ easily."

"I really am lucky, then. And I have—always know it."

"That you're lucky?" Juliet asked quizzically.

"No—maybe," Shawn amended. "That you'll be there, for me. Admit it, Jules, you like saving my life." He grinned stupidity, appreciating every second she drew closer, even if was just to scold him. He held her tightly. She was right. This was some kind of heaven, right here in Vancouver.


End file.
